Never Dream Alone
by Coilfoot
Summary: Awash in stars, the Normandy SR-2 has returned from beyond the Omega-4 relay. Awash in fatigue and fear, the crew looked forward to some much-needed shore leave. Denying them this is a new race appearing from beyond. ShepXTali, OCxMystery! (PERMANENT HIATUS)
1. Navigate the Void

_Never Dream Alone_

Guess who doesn't own anything beyond the original characters that appear? That's right, ME! :D (Damn you Bioware. Keeping all the good stuff to yourself.)

Rated M for profanity, gore, and possible citrus later on (well, more than possible.)

Spoilers for ME 1 & 2 abound. Don't ask me where, I don't know yet. Shep isn't a main char here, he's a paragon goody-two-shoes and general role model (though slightly hypocritical), and has a thing for miss Tali'Zorah vas Normandy, ooh la la!

Also: I am taking liberties with personalities, as I am really no good at keeping people IC. I'm sorry if I get too OOC with them… and also, a new race is introduced, a bit overpowered but with fatal flaws. So don't get your panties in a wad.

_~Chapter One: Navigate the Void~_

The Collectors are dead. This fact, and this sheer fact alone, is enough to make the bedraggled crew of the _Normandy SR-2_ fend off their horrific memories of abduction, of near-liquefying, of certain death, pulled free by the determined arms of Morne Shepard and his team.

Sometimes they have to remind themselves that they are alive, they breathe, they move. They remind themselves that it was no nightmare, it was the impossible come to life. Smoke and fear and carrion and decay fill their nostrils in the deepest hours of the eternal night of space. When in the dream realm, they cannot escape again, and their pores fill with the foul liquid, their bodies trapped, their eyes seeing all beyond but unable to touch it. Their memories twist their way into dreams… and they don't always make it out alive.

Shepard made his rounds as per usual, checking in on everyone. Miraculously, he had saved nearly everybody from the clutches of the collectors, and none of his ground team had been killed in the supposed suicidal run on the base. Well, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, as the human saying goes.

Nobody knew how Shepard took his memories. His indomitable nature was steeled by his memories, of failures and successes passed. He seemed unchanged, his easy smile for his friends and his "commander face" for the rest of the crew, whose presence was redundant now that EDI had the reins of the ship in her—its—metaphorical hands. After blowing the base, he had unceremoniously quit from Timmy's service (a shorter but efficient nickname for The Illusive Man), and there were mixed feelings in the various parts of the _Normandy_. Those still loyal to Cerberus were vastly outnumbered but still there, and Shepard had informed the entire crew and ground team that those who wished to leave could do so with his blessing when they next docked at the Citadel.

Immediately following this, Shepard had made his way to the CIC but was waylaid by a certain set of eyes and was nowhere to be found for the next few hours. Were it not for this unexpected (but not unwelcome) turn of events, they would not have still been in the Omega area when the Council contacted the _Normandy_, they would not have been the closest loyal stealth craft, and the chain of events would not have occurred as they did. This would have happened to someone else, some other time, and the crew of the _Normandy_ would have only seen news vids covering what they would be the focus of otherwise.

But he was… distracted… so all speculation otherwise became irrelevant.

"Commander, there is a call for you from the Citadel Council in the comm. room." EDI's soft blue glow lit up the Commander's room, where he had been dozing with a small quarian in his arms. He grunted in the eloquent-male way he had, and glared ineffectually at the orb.

"It is recommended that you take this call. It was classified as urgent."

With a sigh, he pushed himself away from the delightfully warm woman and dressed, mumbling about what the Council could do with their urgency with no small amount of imagery. One particularly racy comment caused a stifled giggle from the direction of his bed.

"Tali, you're supposed to be asleep. Your immune system needs all the help it can get." Shepard gave her the stink eye, knowing he didn't really mean it. So did she.

"Well, _Commander,_" she huffed, "it would be just fine if you didn't drag me up here again. I already feel a fever coming on, and my nose is running. Not that I'm complaining. It's totally worth it. But it's still your fault."

Shepard gave a short laugh and grabbed the accusatory finger with a flourish. "Well then, miss vas Normandy, allow me to give you my sincere apologies. Might there be anything that I could do to ensure that relations between our species don't deteriorate as a result of my actions?" He waggled his eyebrows and she giggled again, covering her speakers in a vain attempt to disguise it.

EDI's console beeped in an insistent manner, and he dropped the quarian's hand with a sigh. Morne stepped up the dais to the door, and transformed into Commander Shepard again almost before the elevator's doors closed behind him.

oOxXxOo

The debriefing room's chilled air had nothing to do with the shiver that ran down his spine as he prepared to face down the four biggest pains in his life. For all their intentions, not a single one of the alien councilors would admit that he was right in the Reaper threat. The human ambassador he helped place among them carried such little sway with the others that he might as well have not been there at all. But _he_ knew. Anderson believed in the Reaper threat, and backed Shepard every time the subject came up. But with the air-quoting turian chomping at the bit (so to speak) to disqualify everything Shepard said to delusions and a clever Saren, he felt like he was beating his head against the wall in more ways than one.

Surely anything they had to say to him would have him grinding his teeth soon enough.

"Well, better get this over with," he mumbled, and opened the comm. link.

The stern looks on the councils' faces didn't do much to improve his frazzled mood. He had to keep from glaring, keeping his Commander Shepard visage draped over him thicker than a woolen robe.

"Commander Shepard." The asari drew his attention, and she continued without pausing for inflection_… odd. Must be important._ "We have received reports that the Collector base has been destroyed, you have returned from beyond the Omega-4 Relay," she breathed, "and you have subsequently terminated your corroboration with the Cerberus group."

The turian followed (with a surprising inflection of approval in his voice) with, "Two of these acts alone are what the great Commander Shepard could accomplish. As you are obviously alive, we don't need to confirm that you are back from beyond the Omega-4 Relay."

The salarian blinked wetly. "What we are most curious about, however, is that last bit of information. You _have_ terminated contact with Cerberus, yes?"

The councilors, Anderson included, peered intently as they waited for his reply.

He nodded. "I am pleased to inform you all that I did indeed quit working with Cerberus. And no," he continued, "I don't plan on returning anything that they gave me. I have my very competent crew members working on debugging the Normandy from the Illusive Man's surveillance." Shepard clasped his hands behind his back, assuming his military posture.

"As my loyalty is no longer in question, will the Council willingly and openly support me again?" He fixed the asari in his stare, and even though she was across the galaxy, she shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

Anderson piped in, finally. "The Council has already concluded beforehand that should your obligations be to us alone, full Spectre status would accompany—"

The salarian made a shushing gesture and cut Anderson off midsentence, leaving the older man looking extremely put out and confused.

"The breaking of ties with the Cerberus faction was not the only thing we needed to discuss with you, Shepard," the salarian councilor frowned. "As of a few moments ago, a very… delicate matter has come to our attention."

The asari made to continue, but the salarian again shushed his fellow councilor. "We have a need for a loyal stealth-enabled vessel—at which the _Normandy_ is very capable—to complete a covert pick-up near the Omega-4 Relay." He coughed and waved his hand at the others in a gesture to pick up where he left off.

"Your ship is the closest to the relay," the turian councilor explained. "While we have other stealth vessels in the area, none have the… diversity of crew as yours does. The nature of this pickup will be… unlike anything you have seen before. I guarantee it." Splaying his mandibles slightly, the equivalent of a nervous grimace, he continued, "We have been contacted by a new race, from the other side of the Omega-4 Relay."

Shepard unconsciously narrowed his eyes and took a moment to process this information. _Where were they when the Collector's base was being destroyed? Are they also tools for the Reapers? It is possible that they were lying low, waiting for this opportunity, but why would a sentient race wait until we intruded before contacting the Council? _

Some of his thoughts must have been displayed on his face, for Anderson quickly came to his proverbial rescue. "We aren't sure why or how, but they sent a message directly to the Citadel. In turian, no less. They didn't say much beyond their gratitude at the destruction of the Collector base and their interest in meeting the Council as an act of diplomatic first meetings." Anderson shrugged. "We have no idea what they look like, but we do know one thing: their message was sent from a communicator from a turian frigate, the _Kaplua_. It was one of the few ships sent to investigate the other side of the Omega-4 Relay, and was assumed destroyed or disabled. Apparently, it was either salvaged or rescued. The latter would explain their grasp of the turian language, but without concrete evidence, it's all speculation."

Shepard tasted this information, mulled it over his tongue. A new race, of questionable origin, of questionable loyalty and questionable motive. Hell, they didn't even know what this new race _looked like._

"With all due respect, Councillors," he stated, "my crew and I just returned from a suicide mission, destroyed a reaper baby—and yes, EDI has scans to prove that it was at the very least an organic-synthetic hybrid construct made of the same structure and technology as Sovereign, so don't you **dare** airquotes me—and completed what nobody has ever done before. We're tired and they deserve shore leave at the very least. Why should I ask even more of them when half of them are taking sedatives to keep them asleep?"

The salarian huffed. "Of course you have time to give your crew shore leave. The vessel containing our… neighbors is due in a week's time. I suggest you dock at Omega and allow them to drown their memories there. We look forward to hearing of your success in a week."

And like that, they blinked out from the room, and Shepard was awash in darkness.


	2. Tension Born of Silence

_~Chapter Two: Tension born of Silence~_

The following morning, Shepard had to deliver the news of the delay and subsequent detour that the Council had unceremoniously dumped on him—them—and for the most part, the news was met with animosity.

"You mean I have to hang out in that pisshole and drink that shit they call _liquor?_" Jack was one of the more vocal indignants, peppering her words with biotic flares. "Just because some damn _politician_ says you have to run some packages?"

He hadn't told them about the new race. He had, however, told them that anyone who wished to leave immediately for the Citadel or other locations could book passage from Omega in the following week, and he would shoulder the tab for transport.

"Look, Jack," he sighed, "I don't want to be there any more than you do. But it's something of a very delicate nature…" He trailed off, and ran his hand through his hair. "Look. Tell you what. You can run amok for all I care. Just don't dismember or kill anyone who doesn't try to dismember or kill you first."

They had fallen silent at the Commander's words. Usually, he held them on a tighter leash. Why the sudden change of heart?

Shepard looked as though he was going to say something else, but he shook his head and left the table, tension drawn between his shoulders. As soon as his form disappeared behind the doors, the small group gathered burst into speculation and commentary. Whatever was looming on the horizon for the Commander, it had to be big.

oOxXxOo

That evening, the _Normandy_ docked and under the watchful eye of EDI, every living creature who called her home was scattered around the pulsing, dark station. Fitting that its name meant "ending," for with no laws and no moral code ruling it, many creatures met their end here. No matter whether it was the end of their lives or their physical existence, either was eagerly swallowed by the dead-end that was Omega.

Garrus Vakarian remembered the last time he was here. Before, when his team was still alive. When he felt he had had a purpose in emulating the memory of the indomitable but very dead Shepard. When his existence was built around righting the wrongs of the galaxy personified in this station, when his trust lied in eleven men, one of whom brought his world down around his ears yet again. Sidonis was Shepard's death revisited. Shuddering at the memories and the emotions following, the turian swallowed another shot of Palaven whiskey.

Tali'Zorah vas Normandy looked around her and was saddened to see so many of her people in deplorable situations, those who would be traveling the galaxy for something useful reduced to trying to escape the station and its cycle of poverty and crime. Some had turned to crime in hopes of garnishing enough to even survive. She hid her sadness behind her mask and walked closer to her human bulwark, comforted by his touch on her arm.

Jack, Subject Zero, was slamming back more and more liquor, laughing in the faces of the men who paid for it in hopes of seeing more of her tattooed body, but afraid to touch her, instinctually shying from her power. One of the bolder, more desperate onlookers found himself caught in her rabid stare, her strange seduction secluding them in a private room downstairs. He found himself giving release to the biotic bomb, giving her one of the shallow joys she knew so well, hoping subconsciously that he might survive.

Grunt was loosened by the ryncol, by the music, by the adolescent blood running through his veins. He awkwardly shuffled on the dance floor, stepping on toes and turning out to be a happy drunk. The krogan giggled and twirled on a barstool, roaring in the face of a human who pointed and laughed at him, and nearly lost his balance from the joy of seeing the creature gasp and squirm and fall over in fear of the krogan's wrath. The ungainly, giant teenager didn't enjoy this as much as battle, but his Battlemaster said not to fight… so this would have to do.

Legion, the geth, stood in a corner and subtly recorded the organics' strange behavior for sending to his people later. Lifting its head plates in mimicry of organic emotion, it studied the interaction of organics under the intoxication agent. "Building a consensus," it stated to itself.

Thane Krios silently relived his memories to himself, joining Kasumi Goto in a secluded booth, where she was also reliving her memories and those of her lover with her graybox. Together, they mourned their lost loves. This, like every other dark and lonely night, was the perfect canvas to paint upon with the joy that once was theirs.

Zaeed Massani slapped Donnelly's back with a raucous laugh, claiming that the engineer's nearly-green face was the "funniest goddamn thing in this shithole," and urged another batarian ale in front of the poor man's face, his partner already passed out next to him, and downed another shot.

Samara, the asari Justicar, hovered serenely upon the outer hull of the Normandy, preferring to meditate rather than be forced to right the wrongs that were invariably happening within the asteroid-turned-station. Flanked by her adoring salarian doctor Mordin Solus, whose big black eyes drank in every word she uttered, she held her emotions in check like the biotic sphere she formed between her hands.

Jacob Taylor and Miranda Lawson were nowhere to be found, but it was safe to presume that they were celebrating survival in the most basic way, breathing reality into the surreal darkness, preferring to face the world tomorrow rather than be bothered with it tonight. In the arms of each other's incredulity, forever seems to stretch on as it should, rather than ending after exploring the blood-red suicide that was to be theirs.

Doctor Chakwas and the mess sergeant Rupert Gardner shared an innocent bottle of wine, for love is wasted on the young, and too long did they catch each others' mooning gazes through the medbay windows. Upon life, the awkward advances of the man to the woman did not go unrewarded. Upon life, not the death so certainly placed upon them by the Collectors, the wine's various and myriad flavors danced on the tongue and awoke feelings all but forgotten.

Shepard knew that his secrecy could only last so long. He knew that with opportunity came clarity, as those who were going to leave him would. He knew that the first to know would be the quarian on his arm, the one pointedly ignoring the glares and murmurs of their togetherness. He knew that this strong young woman accompanying him across the galaxy would understand and help him find the words to tell the others… the ones who would stay. He rubbed the small of her back affectionately, smiling to himself when she leaned into his touch.

oOxXxOo

Days passed far too quickly and far too slowly. Those loyal to Cerberus still had booked their way off the festering wound of Omega, along with some whom Shepard was unhappy to see go.

Zaeed left in search of lucrative work, also grumbling that he had to go find Vido again—still unhappy with Shepard's decision to save the innocents. With an affectionate slap against the back of Shepard's head, the grizzled mercenary departed.

Samara, in regretful tones, cited a need to return to her oaths. She thanked Shepard for his inspiring and just leadership, and she too left.

Grunt, in his none-too-graceful way, mentioned making good on his breeding requests on Tuchanka but promised to return upon completion of his… erm… duties. With a grunt for goodbye, Grunt found his way to his people's homeworld with a hearty hello to Urdnot Wrex from his old pal Shepard.

Upon the time where dawn would be on the seventh day, Shepard gathered his diminished but loyal crew and broke the truth to them. Considering that most of them were nursing hangovers and general hurts, their reaction was toned down immensely. Overall, to Shepard's surprise, his announcement was handled with equal parts surprise, interest, and apprehension.

"Do you know what they eat? If we're gonna be shippin' some slug-things around the galaxy, I don't want to have to cook for 'em anything special. I'm already gonna have to clean up after 'em," the cook grumbled, earning a few pained chuckles at the imagery.

"We don't know what they eat. We don't know what they look like. We don't know if they know any language beyond turian, or if even that is a rarity. We can't afford to be rude, either. We are at a severe social disadvantage here, Commander," Miranda scowled. Surprisingly, she had stayed on, considering her previous avid loyalty to TIM. "Didn't that Council of yours give us anything _good_ to go off of?"

"Opportunity for science. First to see new race, firsthand knowledge. Excellent material for research." Mordin was fiddling with his omni-tool, muttering to himself and looking much more excited than normal. The salarian had the hots for science, of all things.

The yeoman's eyes had lit up brighter than ever before at the prospect of being among the first to actually meet these new aliens, to understand them, to… explore them! Oh yes, the yeoman was very excited indeed, and had anyone listened to her, she would have gushed it to them. As it were, she gushed to herself, patting her hair absentmindedly and bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Garrus scowled as the yeoman bounced too close and practically rubbed her chest all over his arm. He stepped to the side, mentioning a vague interest but also voicing his doubt that they would be anything too strange by their standards. After seeing as many different species as they had in their travels, he doubted that the presence of another species would change things very much, either in the scope of the Council, the Citadel, or the galaxy in general.

Kasumi brightened also upon hearing of a secret reason, top secret in fact, and the nature of it caused her blood to quicken as only these things could nowadays. With Keiji gone, the only thing that would put a sparkle in her eyes usually involved doing something mischievous.

Thane drank in this development, and with the smallest quirk of his scale-serving-as-eyebrows, he remained largely impassive at the turn of events.

Tali, who had been informed of this beforehand, surveyed the mixed but positive results with a smile. Of course they would be excited. They were Shepard's crew, the loyal blood of the ship, and anything Shepard did they invariably supported or followed. While this was just a meeting of the squad members (sans Legion, who was building a consensus and couldn't be bothered), the news would quickly spread, and if this was any indication of the reception, they had nothing to worry about.

Joker navigated them to the general area of the Omega-4 Relay to await the arrival of their guests with little more than a sigh and a joking comment about slug-people feeding on the crew while they slept.

It was a tension born of excitement and apprehension as the time drew on. Eventually, EDI came over the intercom.

"I am detecting a spike in the energy signature of the relay. Something is coming from the other side."


	3. Intrinsic Predators

_~Chapter Three: Intrinsic Predators~_

_**A/N: I wasn't going to do this until tomorrow but a review prompted me to get off my lazy bum and get some work done. Of course, it was deliciously fun leaving that cliffhanger there. Hopefully this new race won't seem too overpowered—remember, a fatal flaw! It's there! Also, because so much had to be done, it's a kinda long chapter. Note: this chapter is best read with the song "Ashes to Ashes" by Hans Zimmer, as heard on the movie Black Hawk Down.  
**_

For some, the idea of another species was still an _idea_, not anything that could physically take form and push its way into the ever-expanding realm of grey where cultures collided. Even though they were remaining for the purpose alone of meeting them, these unknowns, some crewmen half expected to be left waiting and be called off from the task, that this whole business was due to a prank from some darn kids across the galaxy having a good laugh at the Council.

Whatever they expected, good or ill, the shape that eventually emerged from the other side of the relay took their breath away.

Sleek and dark, the unusual ship gleamed with almost palpable menace. In the distinct shape of an arrowhead, the flat, silent frigate held its mass effect core in its center, exposed to the stars but protected by an unknown force. It drew closer to the _Normandy_ after a moment of orientation, almost hesitantly, before a hail was sent to EDI confirming its origin.

Unable to contain their curiosity, the entire crew jostled and crammed their way into the elevator to the engineering deck for a clear view of the cargo bay. By the time the alien shuttle arrived, the windows were being pressed against by the sizeable crowd, causing the shatter-proof glass to groan in protest. Awaiting the shuttle was Shepard, alone, despite Tali's insistence that she accompany him. His reasoning for making her join the uncomfortable crowd was that she was too excitable, and it might cause diplomatic deteriorations in the worst case scenario.

The shuttle was as sleek as its mother, betraying an advanced technological origin when it landed without disturbing so much as a speck of space dust. When the cargo bay closed behind it, returning an atmosphere to the hold, a faint hum emanated from the shuttle. Its door dissolving into its hull, the galaxy seemed to hold its breath as the first creature stepped gingerly onto the smooth metallic floor of the _Normandy._

The first impression was that of a human-shaped turian with less calf and more heel. A bright grey with darker red swirls upon and all over its body, the scaled creature revealed more upon inspection. Three sharp spikes swept back from behind the skull, thin and without much support for martial purposes, nestled between two spiraled horns suspiciously like a ram's. A line of overlapping plates ran from below these spikes down the spine of the creature, not even ending at the – tail? A tail as long as the creature was tall was gently swaying to keep the creature balanced, along with two sweeping iridescent protrusions from the creature's shoulder blades.

Largely naked, the creature had a loincloth-type piece of cloth wrapped around its lower navel and covering the apex of its legs as well as a twisted cloth wrapped around its upper midsection. Upon its rather large feet were two wicked talons, along with a bigger brother on the inside that looked exactly like a velociraptor's killing claws. Five slender fingers were tipped with black claws on its slightly too-long arms.

It moved with grace and flowed like water to close the distance between it and Shepard. Behind it, more forms emerged from the shuttle, revealing larger and more masculine versions of all different colors and markings, all of whom went largely unnoticed in the wake of the first creature.

She (it had to be a she, Shepard thought, if the slendered form and evidence of breasts were anything to go off of) stepped up to Shepard, his eyes only meeting her chin level. She eyed him with slight disdain, and shuffled those things on her back. A male sauntered up next to her, only a few inches taller than she but rather slim-looking compared to the beasts behind him. These two were the only ones with iridescent things on their backs, flowing behind them like fragmented silk mosaics.

"You are… Shepard, no?" The female spoke, a voice that rumbled and grated subtly with a distinct taste of spice and sand. "I am Ruderai." She gestured to the male beside her. "This is my bondmate, Dorande."

The male inclined his head, yellow-green scales gleaming dully in the light, but kept his eyes firmly locked on Shepard's, as if attempting to glean information by staring him down.

Shepard held out his hand to shake without thinking, earning him a slight hiss and a start from both of them, and he quickly withdrew it.

Ruderai, with visible effort, summoned herself enough to continue. "We, as a race, are known as the visola. Visoli, if you're talking plurally." She gesticulated to the five or so creatures behind her. "While my bondmate and I are of the Dignitary clan, every other Visola here is of the Warrior clan, sent as our security detail, if you will," she sniffed. "You can tell us apart by our markings and our wings if you have trouble." She said this with a bit of derision, as if to say _'surely our bearing alone should set us apart from those louts.'_

Shepard's mind was in several places at once. Different clans? Different markings? Those were _wings?_ At least now he knew what to call them, instead of just the "aliens" or "creatures." His attention went to the 'security detail' and noticed an immediate difference. Larger horns, sharper claws, dulled colors, leathery… wings arching and curving wickedly instead of the fluttering silken ones… but the most obvious tellings were the markings. Thicker plates, scales, and skin dulled the naturally colorful pigment, and the markings were sharper, angular, not unlike the tribal tattoos of Earth.

Their leader, a large male of a dark green color and dull gold markings, gave a sweep of his tail and a gallant bow in recognition of Shepard's attention, as well as a flash of his fangs in what had to be a courteous smile. Shepard liked him instantly.

Ruderai's clearing of her throat brought his attention back to her and Dorande; Shepard realized he hadn't said a word yet.

"Welcome to the _Normandy_, Ruderai. You and your kind are welcome here. We look forward to escorting you to the Citadel." He smiled his charm-the-civilian smile and was rewarded with an incline of her head. _How kind._

oOxXxOo

Shepard sighed inwardly as he was poked—again—by one of the more careless warriors' wingtips. As much as he normally hated elevators, he hated it all the more being crammed into a small space with strangers—_sharp_ strangers—who smelled of leather and some darker version of cinnamon. The warrior gave a strange sound and moved away from him, glancing apologetically in his direction and ignoring the irritated rumble of the chest of the one whose space he had now invaded.

The nobles had stayed behind to send the shuttle back to their ship and a report of success. The warriors, with nothing else to do, followed their leader into the elevator to be introduced to the crew. Five visola and one human (armored, thank goodness) crammed into the elevator and set course for the CIC.

Shepard noted the faces of the visoli. Not unlike a human's, their skin was rough and plated on every angular surface except for the area around the eyes, immediately behind the horns, and the mouth. Their mouths were full-lipped and soft-looking, a direct contrast to the animalistic glint in their eyes. They were almost beautiful, in a dangerous gonna-eat-you way.

Shepard turned to the side and found himself face-to-chin with another warrior—but this one wasn't like the others. First thing he noticed was the black skin, sharply contrasted by the pearly gleam of her markings… black was unusual, wasn't it? For such a colorful speci—_Wait…_

The singular female warrior gave him a bit of a glance out of the corner of her eye and ignored him, mostly. The only evidence of her discomfort was a slight twitch of her tail. Her expression spikes rose a fraction of an inch in the air and her eyes avoided him. Every inch muscle and sinew and plate, she wore a smooth stone on a sturdy silver chain around her neck and twisted cloth around her chest of an embroidered cobalt blue that matched her loincloth.

The doors opened then, and they all fairly spilled out from the elevator, albeit gracefully. Two of the warriors gave slight growls and headbutted each other with a sharp _crack_, separating with grins and words in their guttural tongue. It lifted their moods regardless of what they said, and they looked about them in apparent interest, along with a third—these three seemed to be warriors of a normal caliber, while the other two (the green male and the female) seemed to be elevated in importance.

Shepard didn't have much time to process these observations until Joker showed up from the cockpit.

His shuffled steps caused every pair of predatory eyes to hone in on the frail human. He froze. You could almost see Joker think, _They don't have to wait until we're asleep to eat us. Just ring a dinner bell._

The dark green male was the first to break the tension, to revert the situation from predator-prey to strangers meeting for the first time. In the halting manner of one unused to the language, he said in turian, "It is… my pleasure to meet you… human. I am General Montrai, and this… is my second-in-command… Astair." Here he gestured to the silent, emotionless female beside him, who only narrowed her emerald eyes as any indication of life. She was still in predator mode, and in the cautious way of predators, wasn't making a move until she was sure of her situation.

At that moment, the elevator opened again, releasing another crowd into the CIC-turned-meet n' greet—the visoli turned to the new noise in curiosity—Shepard went to Joker as the two groups collided with much touching and looking and exclamations, growls, and amused words of all languages. Obviously, the warriors were much more chill about touching and handshakes, which they learned quickly. Thankfully, they refrained from headbutting their new friends, despite their tendency to do it to each other in friendly, excited greeting. They did not, however, refrain from licking cheeks, if Tali's indignant squeak was anything to judge from (or the amused-sounding hiccupping growl that passed for visolan laughter.)

Kasumi ran her hands down the wings of one of the warriors, one of a mottled green color and almost pink markings, relishing the warm, leathery skin and the spindly frame that looked like elongated hands. He watched her with open curiosity, cocking his head and muttering to himself in his own tongue, plucking at her hood. She laughed and he pulled his hand back quickly, tensing and his expression one of awkwardness, which made her laugh again.

Thane studied the General with his thoughtful way, noting the similarities and differences of himself and the visoli, noted the fluidity that was uniform among them all, as if they too were assassins. He lapsed into memories of his dead wife, her movements mimicking his own, attempting to duplicate the drell's noiseless stalking, her laughter echoing in their mostly-empty apartment.

Garrus was, to say the least, surprised at the nature of this new species. It would seem that turians had just been usurped as apex predator in the galactic world, which was not a small feat. He took particular notice of their teeth when they spoke, laughed, or growled—not the clustered, too-full look of the batarian teeth, or the dulled omnivorous teeth of the human, every tooth was sharp and medium-length save for the canines. The usual four teeth were longer, curved and thick, but they had an extra, shorter pair immediately behind the first on the top row of teeth, replacing what would have been another flat tooth in the human mouth. These six teeth locked together in a deadly and likely devastating scissor. Garrus ran his tongue over his own teeth, mandibles flaring slightly in thought, but was brought back to himself when he caught one of his taloned feet upon a stray tail and pitched forward into the female warrior, whose only response was a grunt and setting the humiliated turian back upright without so much as looking at him.

Mordin, with much muttering and nervous excitement, was scanning the General again and again, exclaiming at his findings. "Hollow bones, metal weave. Yes, yes, light for flight, strong for fights. Two hearts, large in size. Oversized lungs, overdeveloped chest muscles." The General regarded him with what seemed like laughter in his eyes, humoring the excitable doctor's requests with a sense of amusement.

Kelly was in heaven. Pure, unadulterated heaven, surrounded by polite masculinity, the dangerous men she adored to fear. She pressed herself as close as she dared, once chancing a finger on the arm of the nearest male. It was like water, the scales were soooo smooooth! She sighed appreciatively, earning her a suspicious look and suddenly she was devoid of any scales to feel.

Tali rubbed ineffectually at the smear left by the visola's tongue on her mask, still fuming, but also a bit flattered. If it weren't for Shepard, she might… no, no, it wouldn't do any good to follow down that train of thought. She aimed for her human and waded through the flesh to get to him.

Miranda was completely aghast. She had introduced herself to one of them, and he had only graced her with a nod and his name – Tinsha'u—before he returned his attentions elsewhere, specifically that damned thief and her hood. She was the pinnacle of humanity, dammit! She was perfection! She let out a ladylike huff and went off to find Jacob, who actually believed that.

Jacob crossed his arms. While he and Miranda weren't anything exclusive (yet he kind of wanted to be), he still felt a pang of jealousy when she openly flirted with one of the aliens, contrary to her previous pro-human pedestal. He reminded himself to stay rooted to the spot when he turned to her touch, smiled at her in that damned polite way of their kind, and introduced himself to her. She rubbed his arm, but he turned from her touch to speak with Kasumi again, who was playing with his wings. He relished the hurt and annoyed look on Miranda's face when she realized the rebuffal, and he hid his smirk behind a face of concern when she glued herself to his side.

Astair watched her companions with an appraising eye. She turned to the General when he brushed up against her, giving her a reassuring smile. She twitched her spikes in response, and he left, rubbing her knuckles as a calming agent. She was always responsive to the General. He and his mate had taken her in when she had had nobody else to turn to, and he was as good as her father in every way that counted. Of course, his own fledglings came first, and she always understood. But he was there for her regardless, and she would always have his back. She was still contemplating this memory, the stone around her neck glowing faintly, when some unforeseen force barreled into her side. Slightly irritated at the interruption of her reverie, she caught herself easily as well as her assailant. She glanced at him, the turian whose mandibles were clacking in embarrassment, and set him upright. She had spent enough time around turians to read them well enough, and she knew this one meant no harm. She graced him with no more than another glance before returning to her memories of sandstorms and tumultuous times passed.


	4. For Fear of Clipping Wings

_~Chapter Four: For Fear of Clipping Wings~_

These humans were, in a word, _squishy._ Astair had never had such a wide berth while simply walking down the ship's corridors, nor such a multitude of gasps and whimpers when she brushed past somebody, leaving a trail of red skin if it was exposed. She had never had to watch her tail or her wings so closely, or mind someone _else's_ feet from stubbing into her talons. It also unnerved her that so many of these humans stared so blatantly at her face, as if her having markings on her face was something new. But it wasn't. There was a Vakarian on board, and he had **blue**—a color never found on a visola—on _his_ face. But did everyone gape at him? Nooooo, they all _stared_ at her, her face, her body (many of the male's eyes usually strayed to less and less acceptable places), her markings. Until, that is, she started showing her fangs to warn them to find something else to occupy their eyes.

Which they did. Quickly. At least some things translated across species well enough.

She had found her way into the women's restroom, currently empty, and found her reflection. She leaned in, studying her face. What was so strange about her? She had streaks like eyeshadow above and below her lids, streaking off to a horizontal taper. She had four smaller streaks from her jaw line up to her cheeks, two on each side, and another set of lines fanning from the top of her nose to across her forehead, accenting her scale-eyebrows and leading into her horns and down her back. Typical, for a visolan warrior. Her scales were shiny and smooth, a lustrous deep black, her markings a pearly, iridescent silver-white.

She snorted, and left the restroom. There was nothing wrong with her. Humans were just stupid.

Sashaying across the third deck of the _Normandy, _Astair found her nose tickled by a rather enticing set of scents from the kitchen. Peering slyly around the elevator wall, she spied the cook setting out some light golden colored rings to cool, drizzling a sweet-smelling concoction all over them. She narrowed her eyes, her tail twitching slightly in anticipation of the theft already forming in her mind. Gardner turned to attend something boiling upon the stove, and opportunity noted, she and Tinsha'u (who had mysteriously apparated beside her) were plucking the round things up and hissing in delight at the heat, long tongues darting out to lap up the sugar oozing from the pastry.

Gardner started, having been completely taken by surprise, and whirled around; ladle, forgotten in his hand, slung the purple soup from the pot in a wide arc, most of it landing on the tip of Astair's tail. She lifted it to her mouth and licked, letting the bitter taste spread on her tongue. Tinsha'u grinned at the dumbstruck human, stealing another pastry from the tray (having had devoured its predecessor.) Suddenly, the cook started waving his hands frantically at them, bleating things about dextro- and levo- appropriate foods. Apparently, the bitter soup was supposed to be for the turian and the quarian, and the doughnuts were supposed to be for Shepard (who had an insatiable sweet tooth.)

Tinsha'u chuckled, and quelled the cook's words with "visoli are neutro-amino." Confused, but nonplussed, the cook waved away the two intruders with irritated gestures, who sullenly turned to comply.

The General's gravelly voice rose above Gardner's irritated snorting. "What is that… smell?" He peered from Miranda's office, holding in his claws a holopad. He handed it to Astair, already forgotten, his eyes focused on the already-assaulted base of Doughnut. When Gardner seemed ready to intercept, General Montrai snapped his teeth together in warning; he picked one up daintily between two talons, turning it, inspecting it. His tongue, too, lapped up the sugary coating as it began to drip.

That's when it happened.

Just a moment before, he had been behaving as normally as a visola could be expected to behave—now, however, he had greedily clustered the rest of the doughnuts into his talons (the now-bereft pan clattering noisily onto the floor). Wings spread slightly, head lowered, he growled possessively over his prize at the cook, who was trying desperately to get them back. Stretching to his full height (an easy foot and a half over the human), he clicked his teeth together and retreated coolly under the barrage of Gardner's fists.

When it was finally clear to him that he was fighting for a lost cause, the cook slumped back over to his post to try and make more. Feeling himself under the scrutinizing eyes of the two other visoli, Gardner glared at them until they felt their need to leave, having utterly destroyed what the cook had managed to complete in just a few minutes. Leaving large smears in the quickly solidifying purple goop with their taloned feet, the two sallied away without a word.

oOxXxOo

Several hours later, the first day of travel began to draw to a close.

Shepard realized, rather belatedly, that he wasn't sure if there were beds enough for their guests. Stepping inside the crew quarters belowdecks, he was greeted by a clustering of crew members just inside the door. Gently pushing his way through them, he came upon the reason.

There, sprawled up in the middle of the floor, was General Montrai. Curling gently onto himself, he grunted in a satisfied way; this seemed to be a cue to the other warriors, who shuffled over to add themselves into what turned into a very complicated and spiky dogpile. Limbs and tails and wings were placed just so, heads balanced on each other's backs, the three lesser warriors encased the General and his mysterious second-in-command in a living tent, heads poking out in random points.

"Erm… What are you doing?" Shepard walked around the strange display, noting the two dignitaries curled together on one of the spare bunks, wings intertwined.

"Sleeping, Spectre Shepard," the General murmured, eyes not even attempting to look open.

Pointing with his thumb at the visoli on the bunk, Shepard raised his eyebrow in a pointless gesture (who was going to see it?) and stated, "They're on the bunk."

The General's expression spikes rose a little as he snorted. "Of course… they are. They're… bondmates. We're just… warriors."

Shepard started a bit. "You mean this is some sort of caste thing? You have to sleep on the floor because of some ladder of dominance?"

One of the General's eyes propped itself open, apparently with much effort. "I must be… saying it wrong. We require sleeping… with another. As bondmates, they… sleep together. If we sleep… alone, we get… cold."

…_what?_

"We have blankets," Shepard said slowly, not quite sure he knew what the heck they were talking about now.

Mordin, who had been (surprisingly) merely observing, leapt forward with his omni-tool at the ready. Scanning the pile with fervor (from every angle), he exclaimed in what can only be described as "scientific orgasm."

"Not warm-blooded. Not cold-blooded. Seem to be… in-between. Look," he shoved the display in Shepard's face. "Temperature lower than before. Warm in morning, colder later on."

The General grunted again. "Indeed… we must sleep… at least with one other. We cannot… sleep alone."

Shepard nodded; now he understood. There must be dire ramifications if they slept alone. He was about to ask more questions, but the visoli seemed to be a race that quickly falls asleep—every single one of them, dignitaries included, were breathing deeply and in complete synchronization with each other. Which was a little creepy.

Apparently, there was much to learn about this new race than he first thought.

**A/N: Sorry for the extreeeeme delay in update; I had minor writer's block in the sense that I knew what would happen, but had no idea how to get it there. You can kind of tell in places that it's a bit forced, but hopefully it didn't hurt you too bad. I don't know how this is going over, as I have received little feedback from the readers (reviewer notwithstanding 3). I am hesitant to write more; as I said, little feedback. It's kind of new territory, as it were. First fanfic, and all. **

**Anyway, please R&R, I love you long time if you do :)**


	5. Scales of Sand

_**A/N: Thanks for the review! I promise, more action soon. Enjoy :)**_

_~Chapter Five: Scales of Sand~_

_The seven rings of Sen are reflecting, pushing back the torrent of sunlight from the massive sun; the dunes of her world are set afire as Astair dives through the hail of bullets, wings clenched tightly to her armored sides, sand-pregnant wind pelting her scales. Clenched tightly in her claws is the only weapon that can destroy them—she snaps out her wings suddenly, her enemy in sight, and the world's breath hovers her against her own weight—a torrent of white fire, spewing like a swarm of locusts over her enemy, melting them into nonexistence. The heat is barely noticeable, so drenched is Sen in sun. The glistening of her enemy shows her its death, and she allows her body to be swept away by the wind in search of the traitors she seeks, ever the enemy in her long life. Ever vigilant she must be, her scales buffed and cleansed by the scorching sandstorm, the black pearl warrior of the sky. _

Astair awoke slowly from her memory-dream. The quarters of the crew was unnaturally dark; she had trouble adjusting her night-vision to such blackness. Nestled in the warmth of the others' bodies, she had little inclination to move; as Clexorin's body swelled and diminished with his sleep-laden breaths under her chin, rocking her slowly, she felt lulled back into slumber.

That is, until a small clatter perked her senses. In the dim half-light of the glow of the other visolans' memories, she barely made out a form hunched over in an attempt to hide itself. Feigning a sleepy sigh, she closed her inner lids—watching just the same, but without the telltale glint of the wetness of her eyes.

When the form had deemed the situation once again safe, it crept forward again, and its scent tickled Astair's nose—an odd, heavy scent. The faint click and _whirr _of an omni-tool starting up reached her ears. Suspicious of the visitor, she opened her inner lids ever-so-slightly to see more clearly. There, standing not three feet away, was a geth.

Her first instinct was to growl, to warn it away from her sleeping clan members and to awaken them from their slumber. She felt her throat tighten in anticipation of the action, but she never let it go. It held no weapon, simply an omni-tool, and its ghostly clicks were mostly to itself. From her understanding, geth were not as dangerous alone as they were in a group.

Flicking her own omni-tool on (discreetly within another's wings, to block out its glow), she scanned the _Normandy _for any others. When the results returned as negative, she became puzzled. Why would a lone geth be upon a ship with some of the most celebrated geth-killers in known space? How could this geth be intelligent enough to evade detection upon such an advanced ship, with its own AI? Unless… no. Astair was fairly certain it was not here with the permission of the Commander.

Regardless of her speculations, it completed its task and began its rather ungraceful retreat from her gaze, kicking another fallen can on its way out. Instead of hiding this time, however, it scuttled its way from the quarters, allowing the door to seal behind it.

oOxXxOo

Come the morning cycle, Astair had seated herself beside her General, joining him and the two dignitaries in learning about the cultures and customs to which they had to introduce their race. When it was explained that visoli have perfect memories through their personal _velieris_(any inanimate object or ornamentation that the visola keeps on their person throughout their life and works much like a graybox—albeit that without the owner as a conduit, it is just an object and its memories are inaccessible), EDI began the quintessential process of, as Shepard put it, "bringing the noobs up to speed."

The four creatures sat before eight screens in the debriefing room, each running the history and culture and customs of each species known, both extinct and far from it. Flashing in almost imperceptibility, the screens were accompanied by electric charges that their advanced omni-tools translated into words (which were then stored with the images in the _velieris_.)

After hours staring at these screens, Astair finished the knowledge 'download,' having now learned most of what she needed to know, including the word "noob," its origins, its usage, and thirty ways to insult someone with it. On a whim, she decided to stretch her legs and go visit the engine room and put her newfound knowledge to use.

Emerging from the elevator, Astair scented Clexorin, the deep red male. Curious scuffling noises were heard from the direction of the engines. Cautious, she softened her steps, stalking her fellow warrior.

The door was propped open with a greasy part, obviously in the middle of repairs, and Astair crept through it without it announcing her presence.

There, trying her best to ignore her hulking visitor, Tali'Zorah vas Normandy had the console propped open and held two wires apart with a plastic bit. Leaning heavily behind her was Clexorin, breathing in the quarian's scent.

Frozen, Astair waited a moment more to judge the situation before she acted. Should the quarian be at fault for this, she would be punished by her mate rather than Astair.

Clexorin's talons slid over the quarian's suit, running up her spine; Tali whirled around, slapping his hand away. "Leave me alone, visola. I'm not interested."

He grinned a sharp grin. "You'd enjoy me much more than your squishy human. Aren't you curious to see what a superior mate can do?"

In that moment, when Clexorin pinned Tali against the bulkhead with his body, licking the side of her neck, Astair snapped into action.

With a sharp growl in her throat, she sprang into the room, pushing her body forward into a powerful leap with her hind legs—seizing Clexorin with her talons.

Snapping of teeth, seeking the sensitive skin behind the horns. Crushing with bone and beating with wings, scrabbling of killing claws on the metallic floor, menacing snarls and sparks from where talons find purchase on scales, the two warriors battled in a tight knot, red and black writhing and producing terrible sounds, silvery smears from their wounds smattering the floor and walls.

Astair tumbles with Clexorin out of the room, knocking the door shut, sealing Tali behind them. When his fighting ceases, when he shows her his underbelly and tucks his tail in submission, she recesses her dorsal spines back under their plates.

With a slim line of silver blood dribbling down his snout, Clexorin hurred in an attempt to placate his leader. Unfortunately for him, Astair was having none of it, and pinned him against the wall with her hind leg around his neck in an amazing feat of flexibility.

Despite the fact that the door was closed, Tali could still hear the angered growls and strange words that comprised the visolan language. After quite a bit of thrashing, with her tongue and otherwise, Astair appeared through the door again, a thoroughly defeated-looking visola trailing in behind her.

Tali wasn't sure how to feel. She had been about to be forced upon, when out of nowhere, the female visola had barreled in and punished without question. She felt a combination of gratitude and fear—a race that attacked so ferociously was not good to have around a suit that, if punctured, could kill its owner. She was still in the limbo of emotions when Astair spoke for the first time.

"On behalf of my subordinate, I apologize for his actions and hope that his irrational and idiotic behavior does not ruin your opinion of us. I have punished him already, but more awaits him when the General hears of his actions." Surprisingly well-spoken was she, a voice that was confident, alluring. It reverberated within her chest, probably due to her anger, and created a double-toned effect similar to a simplified version of the hanar speech.

The growling undercurrent increased as she turned to the male. "I will not, however, excuse him from apologizing to you himself also."

Slinking forward with the air of a shamed dog, eyes on the ground, Clexorin came before Tali.

"I apologize, ma'am. It was never in my rights to force anything upon you. Had my superior not interjected, I could have defiled _soucai. _I assure you, you will not be bothered by my presence again."

Tali'Zorah, still a bit flustered at the direction her day had taken, managed to nod. Then, as quickly as she had appeared, Astair vanished with her quarry in hand.

_What's a soucai?_

oOxXxOo

Shepard slammed his fist into the desk. Tali had just informed him of what Clexorin had tried to do—and the naturally protective Commander wanted blood.

"Astair, the dark one? She came out of nowhere, smacked him around, and made him apologize. I think she took him to the General also," Tali attempted to calm him, but little progress was being made.

"He laid a hand—paw—_whatever_ on you, and he could have hurt you!" He gestured widely with his arm, body tense, and while she knew he would never hurt her, she felt something akin to fear in the face of his anger. "If I so much as see him before he's leaving tomorrow, I swear I will rip his wings off and shove them down his throat."

He glared at her for a second, before swooping her into his arms, burying his face in her neck.

"I don't want anything to happen to you, my Tali'Zorah."

oOxXxOo

She stared down the geth, attempting to understand what the doctor was telling her. "Good" geth and "bad" geth—and this one, special even among the supposed juxtaposition of geth, created solely for the purpose of finding the Commander. It pointed its flashlight-head in her direction and seemed to be staring back. _Unnerving._

Her plates rose ever-so-slightly, and the tip of her tail twitched. "You mean to say that this… Legion… is not a stowaway? A quarian and a geth are willingly working together?" She shook her head violently, as a dog might expel water. "The information provided by EDI did not cover anything remotely resembling a working relation between the two."

Chakwas shrugged. "This is all from the Commander and the geth. Tali seems to trust it to an extent, and if she does, then I don't have any problems with it either."

The doctor crossed her arms and leaned against her desk. "If you don't mind the asking, why the sudden willingness to talk? When you first came aboard, you would hardly even give a non-verbal response. It's not for lack of a grasp of the language, obviously."

Astair glanced at her. "Perhaps it is the fact that I have had need to speak for information gathering or to convey something otherwise impossible to make clear."

Chakwas waited for more, but when it seemed that none would be forthcoming, she straightened up again. "Well then, that answers that I suppose."

EDI appeared. "Lieutenant Astair, General Montrai and Commander Shepard request your presence in the debriefing room." EDI then, to no surprise, disappeared.

Astair snorted at the impassive geth and turned to leave, giving the doctor a nod of her head in passing.

_Let's see what the powers-that-be require of me._


	6. Apparition Manifest

**A/N: Thanks to reviewers and favoriteers (cousins of buccaneers) everywhere! I enjoy knowing that people enjoy my story-telling. I am feeling a less intimidated by writing non-canon main characters :) As proof, I upload two chapters today! Count 'em! TWO!**

_~Chapter Six: Apparition Manifest~_

"You required my presence, General?" Astair inclined her head first to her General, then to Commander Shepard. Behind her, the other warriors had filed into the room, each paying their respects to their superiors.

The General motioned to the Commander, who stepped forward to speak. "We are but two hours away from the Citadel. Montrai and I are going to detail your duties, things to watch for, and outline the mission."

General Montrai took the Commander's place. "As you are aware, your mission is the same as mine: we are to defend the ambassadors without giving the other races a negative image of us. We should… what is that human phrase… 'dance on the fence,' balancing between displaying our ferocity, our intelligence, and our amiability. We must do this without obscuring the ambassadors from view, but also keeping close enough to defend them from assault." His speech had become more fluid, not only through practice but also with aid from EDI. He and Astair had downloaded an understanding of their language to the ship's computer, from which EDI updated the crew's translators.

Shepard brought up a holo of various weapons. "Different weapons essentially shoot the same stuff—pieces of a material, specialized or not, are thrust forward by a miniature mass effect field at a high velocity. Our shields are meant to stop projectiles, but do not defend against physical contact. In a crowd, you will not be able to shoot a weapon in defense without harming an innocent. Am I correct in assuming that your race uses those claws of yours?" He turned to Montrai, who nodded.

"We have a wide range of weapons at our disposal, most occurring naturally. We have a few enhancements, though we did not bring all of them with us." He grinned, fangs moist. "We did not believe that coming fully armed would give an impression of goodwill."

Shepard gave a nervous smile back. He had forgotten about those teeth.

He cleared his throat. "Yes, well." He turned to the table, bringing up a holo of the Citadel's schematics. "This is the route we will be travelling. We will take a shuttle to here," he said, pointing, "and walk to the tower. This is enough time on the ground to allow for rumors to be confirmed or denied, but not long enough for anything major to happen. We are going to be coming in from an unusual angle, so we will be avoiding most of the foot traffic."

The meeting went on in this fashion for a while longer, detailing scenarios and profiling the general populace of the area of the presidium and wards through which they would travel.

As Joker brought them to the Citadel perimeter, the visoli assembled in the cargo bay, along with Shepard, his quarian, and Garrus, equipped with his precious sniper rifle. The visoli clustered around each other, tense, shuffling their scales, semi-retractable claws extending and receding. The tension had not yet become palpable, yet Tali was nearly shivering with anticipation.

The warriors pulled from parts unknown a chest, from which they began lifting out finery. They replaced their dull loincloths with brighter, embroidered ones, studded with beads and jewels. For Astair and Montrai, more awaited. Strips of decorated metal for Astair and Montrai in a red-gold hue curved over their shoulders, weaving between their spikes. The tips of their horns were covered with golden caps, various piercings in their wings filled with rings and gems of brilliant color, and long bands of metal for their wrists and shins of the same red-gold.

Ruderai and Dorande, the ever-superior ambassadors, swept in with a pair of lifted snouts, also in finery. Ruderai picked the perfect spot inside the shuttle, brushing it free of imperfections, before seating herself without a word. Dorande strode directly to Montrai, who kept his eyes on the other's teeth while he bent his head low enough to expose his tender skin.

Dorande growled, low in his chest, but it was reedy and without much force—all the same, Montrai did not challenge him, reestablishing Dorande's dominance. Dorande leaned in close. "Remember, _General._ You are here for us, not for your men. You will remember the oath of your caste." With a snort, spraying the motionless General with slime, Dorande joined his bondmate in the shuttle, unaware of Astair's blinkless glare.

Astair nudged the General's horns with her own. Shepard shut the shuttle door, mouth set in a thin line, his squad silent.

Montrai blinked, slowly. "We are warriors, fledgling. Ever bound to those we serve, and bound tighter to those we love. What complicates things is when those we serve pit us against our loved." He wiped off his face with the back of his hand, and turned to his clanmates. "Hate it though I might, he is correct. Our oath compels us." The warriors dropped their eyes, tension forgotten.

Two lesser warriors joined the ambassadors in their shuttle, and flanking it on either side were two shuttles Shepard had rented. The leading shuttle held Shepard and his crew, while the remaining visoli brought up the rear. The loading bay of the _Normandy _revealed its inner belly, and the exodus began.

oOxXxOo

Astair peered out of the window at this new world. She spotted streams of people as the shuttles descended, and turned to Montrai, who was silently observing next to her. "How many aliens live on the Citadel?"

He tapped on his omni-tool and muttered, "About twice as many creatures live here than on our entire planet."

Astair, nonplussed, pressed against the glass to lap up the city's unobscured lights and colors, gold-tipped tail waving slowly in joy. There was not a single grain of sand in the air, no sand anywhere at all.

For all her knowledge, she had much to learn.

oOxXxOo

The shuttles landed a half-mile from the Citadel tower in a private parking lot. Astair leapt out of the shuttle, eager for sunlight, and was met with a weak imitation of the blaze she had craved. Disappointed, she spread her wings slightly, exposing the veins to the sun. Montrai followed behind her, and with a nudge, pointed out the single salarian gaping at them from the other end of the parking lot, keys dangling forgotten in his hand.

Shepard stepped out of his own shuttle in time to see the two grin maliciously at the poor man in tandem. With a gasp, the salarian ducked behind his car. Shepard cleared his throat and the pair instantly found their surroundings very interesting. He shook his head at them—how childish—and sent his squad to secure the perimeter as well before opening the dignitaries' door.

Flanked by their underlings, the two stepped free, and the sunlight set their scales alight in the way that only sunlight could. Glittering they were, the mosaics of their gossamer wings catching and holding the sunlight, butterfly wings reinforced with bone, spread as floating capes behind them. The spidery bones held their wings spread and aloft, and the bondmates began their regal walk, the others falling in around them.

Astair, along with her warrior compatriots, flared her own wings slightly, held her killing claws erect, and lifted her head to allow the sunlight to reflect off of her scales.

When they stepped into the eye of the universe, the Avina unit began to malfunction, drawing more attention to the strange newcomers with its proclamations of "Error: unknown biological signatures detected."

Astair tensed immediately. To scare a single civilian was one thing, but her kind was being assaulted with gasps and stares, pointed fingers and a human's melodramatic scream (quickly hushed by those nearby.) The calmest were the older asari, for whom a new race was nothing really out of the ordinary. These just glanced at them and continued about their business once it was determined that they were in no immediate danger.

For the other inhabitants, however, this was very noteworthy.

A troupe of c-sec officers came bounding in at the disturbance, and with curses, swung their weapons in the direction of the visoli. The warriors cluttered around their charges and instantly drew their hackles up, spread their wings, and snarled at the guns—until Shepard stepped between them and brandished his Threatenin' Pistol™ at them.

"I'm Commander Shepard, and these aliens are under my protection and authority as a Spectre." He stated this with the no-nonsense tone he gets when he threatens to saw off people's testicles.

With anxious glances to one another, the officers stood down, and the visoli resumed their former position with cautious steps. As they continued their way, more and more passersby gathered to walk with them, generating a veritable horde of curious bodies and daring children—the sort that always ended up drawing attention and, therefore, more bodies.

A human child nearly had his head chomped from his shoulders when he darted out of the crowd and slapped one of the warriors on the leg with unintended force—showing off for his friends, no doubt—and ended up flying into the crowd after a tail had slapped him away.

It was no time before a news camera zoomed towards them, followed closely by a swarm of reporters and their questions, running at breakneck speeds through the crowd following the visoli, shoving their microphones in the creatures' faces.

That is, until General Montrai bit one in half. They stayed at a respectful distance after that.

Astair felt vertigo as she looked up and saw someone else's down. She was getting overwhelmed and irate by the flashing lights in her face, the closeness of strangers, the sheer amount of noise—Shepard did his best to keep the crowd at bay, but power is only effective if people respect it. Eventually, the warriors had to bare their teeth at any too nearby—arching their wings and growling loudly, then resuming their wary walk.

_Never have I been so happy to see those damn elevators,_ Shepard thought in relief as they approached the Tower. The crowd dwindled and died away as it became apparent that they would not be allowed to accompany the creatures, and dissipated completely when the glass doors slid closed behind the tail of the last visola.


	7. The Will of the Masters

**A/N: WHOOO Two chapters today, as I said before. This is the chapter that starts the main story arc of this series. Transporting some aliens doesn't last forever, you know ;) **

_~Chapter Seven: The Will of the Masters~_

Shepard stayed outside with the warriors (sans the General) while the bureaucrats of both the visoli and the Citadel spewed politics and pleasantries at each other. He flumped down next to Tali'Zorah against the wall and attempted to snatch the shotgun she had been fondling away from her.

"No fair, pigeon. This stupid gun gets more attention than me nowadays." Shepard fake-pouted at her. "When will I get me some Tali lovin'?"

She sternly slapped his hands away and cradled the gun on her opposite shoulder. "When we're not on a mission, _Commander._ That's when." She glanced at him, and when she noted his crestfallen face, she silently slipped her hand into his. A ghost of a smile traced his lips and they sat like that for a long time.

Astair watched them with thinly veiled interest.

Here was a relationship without point. Surely they were both aware that short of adoption or other false form, the production of offspring was physically impossible for them—yet they were so content just to be together, like bondmates of her own kind. They had no tattoos to claim the other as theirs, no human 'marriage,' no visolan bond-marks. Just… implicit trust, and what seemed to be genuine affection. Surely with such affection, they wished to mate, if they had not already done so. Yet, it was pointless to do so, which brought her right back to where she began.

She shook her head rather violently to expel these circular thoughts as a dog would expel water from its coat. This was something to think about when others' safety was not dependent upon her vigilance. Of course, that's not to say that she didn't still watch them from her periphery.

After the first few minutes, Clexorin felt the uncomfortable knowledge that Shepard was glaring at him and wisely decided to disappear into the act of patrolling.

The day wore on, and though the lighting in the Citadel did not change, there was soon a rumbling in the gut that reminded Shepard that despite illusions otherwise, he and his crew were mortal and needed sustenance. He had sent the turian off with a shopping list, and upon his return, they took turns eating—Astair declined her turn as well as the turns of the other warriors, citing what seemed to be part of an oath that kept them from tending to needs while on duty. Shepard shrugged, used to oaths and such from his time with Samara on his team, and let her be.

Astair took to pacing after the seventh "stimulating" hour dragged by, the methodic and melodious sound of her claws clicking upon the floor lulled the already-tired quarian to a daze akin to a waking sleep. It set a tandem for Garrus' gun-polishing, and Shepard began to hum to himself in time with her unintentional metronome. The other warriors had each branched off to patrol the perimeter, watching the C-Sec officers charged with keeping civilians away to ensure their fidelity to the mission, growling at them from the shadows if they caught one sleeping—not often, as unlike the warriors, they received shifts only four hours long before they were exchanged for fresh officers.

By the time the warriors had begun standing near one another to slow the heat escaping from their bodies, the doors slid open to release the General, the Council disappearing out of a door on the other side of the room. Shepard stood up quickly, dragging the sleepy Tali up with him, Garrus already at attention, earning a nod from the General. He said something to the warriors, and with simultaneous grins, they all began to tear into the food they had each set aside for themselves with fervor, turning away from their non-visolan compatriots to shield them from the animalistic characteristics they were now displaying, Astair included.

While the others quietly growled in pleasure behind him, General Montrai gestured for Shepard to speak to him in private. Ushering Shepard to a secluded spot, they murmured and glanced at the warriors from time to time, one or the other shaking their heads occasionally. Tali leaned heavily on Garrus, who was by sheer force of will staying awake. It had been 20 hours since they had woken up for the day, and the night before hadn't exactly been restful due to the restlessness that had plagued the visoli.

After only a few minutes, the former piles of food were nowhere to be found and the two had finished their conversation, having reached a conclusion; the dignitaries had emerged and the warriors took up positions around them, guiding themselves and their charges to the port.

oOxXxOo

The gleaming flanks of the _Normandy_ greeted the group at the port, along with a smaller, dark purple and gold ship of what seemed to be visolan make at her side, having followed the _Normandy_ to the Citadel after the route had been charted and the way cleared by the Council.

When the visoli spied their ride home, they began clicking and hurring excitedly to each other, new vigor in their steps and exhaustion forgotten for the moment by warrior and dignitary alike, various _velieris_lighting up as each visoli began to remember the feeling of home—a bead here, a piercing in the shape of a twisted root there—a miniature light show the color of joy.

Greeting parties from both ships appeared and welcomed back their respective parties, a bit of intermingling between groups as they prepared to say farewell—Mess Sergeant Gardner even appeared with a pot of purple goop and a platter of doughnuts for their trip home.

Goodbyes finished, the visoli began to file onto their sleek ship home, until only Astair and General Montrai remained. With a final glance at the new friends she had made, Astair began to ascend into the airlock—until the gentle, but firm, grip of the General halted her progress. With an inquiring glance, she stepped back until she faced him.

Shepard shepherded his crew into the airlock hurriedly, saying he'd be in shortly and to wait for him in the conference room. With minimal grumbling, they obeyed.

Montrai pulled Astair into a hug and grazed her forehead with his own, eliciting a soft, affectionate growl from her. In as gentle a tone as he could muster, he spoke to her in their gravelly tongue. "Fledgling, you cannot come home."

It hit her, a ten-ton rock of realization that she would be separated from all she knew. She tore away from him, breath short, demanding an explanation with a menacing growl, suddenly defiant in her shock.

He kept his voice low, attempting to keep her feelings in check. "This is for the best. We need to have an ambassador for our kind, to show the universe what we are and are not while we prepare volunteers to migrate here."

She snorted. "Why me, why not an actual ambassador? You know, the ones who were **born **to be pleasing? The ones who have done this for their entire lifetime, their ancestors', and their ancestors' ancestors'?"

Shepard's translator was only able to catch a few words in their conversation due to the speed and amount of "accent" they were producing (otherwise known as growling), but their tones and body language spoke volumes louder than they were actually speaking.

Montrai stepped toward her, but she shied away in her anger. "We—no, I—ask you to do this because you are the best we have to offer. I cannot leave the dignitaries, and they are not hard enough to withstand as much as you. The other warriors are hot-headed and you are visually more attractive than they. Your unique position gives you an open mind, and I have trained you well. You have been ready to leave the clutch for years, but I have been selfishly keeping you to myself. I have known that one day, I would have to let you go. And while this is difficult for me to say, it is time you found the galaxy beyond… on your own."

Through his explanation, her wings had drooped, and she began to look tired and defeated. Her surrogate father stepped towards her again, and when he held her, she did not resist. He murmured something else in her ear, and with a shuddering breath, she grasped the metal band twisting around his arm as he clutched her stone, which began to glow dully, as if dying.

They spoke together in an almost-chant, eyes closed and foreheads together, tails resting entirely upon the ground in an expression of sadness. Small bits of glow separated from the General's _velieris_snaked towards hers, and when the last tendril disappeared, he released her.

She looked at him, steeling herself for what he said next.

"I have given you all the knowledge I was given upon my inauguration as a General, and I have given you all that I could add. You now bear the highest military wisdom I can bestow." He ascended the stairs to the airlock of the visolan ship, turned and bowed to her, reminiscent of the first time he met Shepard, and ever so softly…

"May the wind carry you as lightly as your heart, may your foes fall quickly and many to your talons, and may you always find your home in the soil you stand upon… remember always that you are General Astair, Kanserai du'Sen."

Montrai mounted the dais and kept his eyes on hers, his claws held firmly in the sign for family, and remained thus until the door materialized and shut him from her view.

oOxXxOo

She watched but did not see as all she knew pulled away, turned, and slowly disappeared into the dust of the nebula. She did not hear the keening that tore from her throat, felt only the weight of her heart as it plunged, the cold numbness that followed invariably. She was an orphan again, doomed to dream alone, clinging to the heat of machines to keep her heart beating, huddling her tattered wings against the chill wind of Sen.

She did not hear Shepard softly saying her name, did not feel his feather-light touch on her shuddering scales, did not react to his nearness. All she could do was breathe, deep and heavy.

In. She was, for all intents and purposes, alone.

Out. Without anything but what was on her back.

In. Her new leader was competent, but not of her kind.

Out. She was, through no will of her own, going to have to disobey the single most important rule of her species.

The rule that kept their hearts beating when the heat of the desert became the ice of the night, kept mates bonded and established cohesion within the ranks of the warriors.

Never, ever dream alone.

oOxXxOo


	8. Silver Sand Serenade

**A/N: To answer a reviewer's questions (since they didn't sign in or whatever, I couldn't reply any other way, sorry), one: did you ever watch Gargoyles as a kid? Imagine a hairless, scaly version of Goliath, add all the goodies, and there you have a very manly warrior. And two: if I told you that, it wouldn't really be a mystery, would it? ****J**** Hehehe. I suppose I could say that both are possibilities; I plan for the gang to eventually travel to Sen. As a side note: Astair's name was inspired by the song "Astair" by Matt Costa. **

_~Chapter Eight: Silver Sand Serenade~ _

She shoved her ache down her own maw, choking on the sweet bitterness and the dust of it. Her subtle beast materialized and curled itself, purring, around her heart, face superimposed over her own. Shepard watched her. Features piecing themselves together in a harder shape than before, she straightened, and locked his worried eyes with her steel.

He had the eerie feeling of déjà vu—that perhaps he had just witnessed in her what his Tali witnessed in him, but to a point.

It was different when a predator gave no berth.

Her voice rumbled in her chest, dripping with the visolan accent. "I am ready to proceed, Commander."

Together, they stepped onto the Normandy once more—no longer as two separate entities with separate loyalties, but two dangerous individuals with more similarities than they believed.

oOxXxOo

It was pissing Jack off. It had been so long since she'd seen some goddamn action! Her skin was itching and she paced the floor of her seclusion. Thanks to those talking _lizards, _they were back in Council-controlled space, so that meant few firefights and even fewer chances for her to get out her aggression. At least that's what the cheery yeoman—_gag—_called it. Jack just wanted some fun.

Desiring action of any sort—she was bored to tears—she leapt up the stairs two at a time to go bully the redhead with the cute accent again. Maybe try and distract him with her skin again, perhaps cause another explosive decompression in the engine. It had been fun to see him get a new one torn by that quarian. She cackled at the memory.

Gabby turned her head slightly when she heard the thunking of boots ascending the stairs from belowdecks, and groaned when the muffled evidence of Jack preceded its owner. She shook her head and disentangled herself from the wires in the board—she didn't want to be electrocuted again—and decided to take a break for a snack. She left just as Jack sauntered in, wondering where Tali was.

Tali, as it happened, was with a majority of the ground crew in the conference room as instructed, awaiting their Commander.

"The visolan ship has now left this arm of space. It can be presumed that they are heading back to their planet to pick up more of their kind," EDI informed them.

"They were interesting, weren't they?" inquired Kasumi, fondling gently a flower that seemed to have been bent into existence from a silvery metal. She spied the yeoman (who had followed the crowd, wondering what was going on) eyeing her flower with what seemed to be a nosy question about to come out of her mouth. The next thing Kelly knew, the flower had disappeared, without the thief even moving.

Tali smiled to herself when she noticed the possessiveness of Kasumi towards her fragile trinket. She didn't recognize the flower it was meant to be, but considering where the trinket came from, its indeterminate origin was probably justifiable.

Meanwhile, Shepard guided the stoic visola through the ship, bearing towards the debriefing room, rehearsing to himself the explanation for having yet another dangerous alien upon the _Normandy_. Astair looked neither left nor right, only the faintest twinges above her deep, bright green eyes appeared whenever they would happen upon a pair or more of crew members—these would invariably stare, look at each other, back at her, and whisper between themselves far too loudly about their confusion of her presence.

Shepard silenced them with a look every time, as if to reprimand them for gossiping like easily entertained schoolgirls. It always sent them scurrying, with ramrod-straight posture, back to their stations (which they shouldn't have left in the first place, he thought to himself.)

When they reached the door to the conference room, the visolan stopped short, the tip of her tail waving slowly in a circle. She faced the Commander's questioning stare with one of her own, saying simply, "I shouldn't be the first one in."

Shepard's mouth set itself into a firm line as he stepped through the entryway, the sharp hiss of the air releasing its tension drawing the attention of everyone in the room. With a look that silenced any unborn question, Shepard stood aside to reveal her. She stared back as they stared again, obviously wondering what she was still doing here—the question she sort of wanted to ask herself, if she didn't already know the answer.

The thunking of boots behind her caused Astair to turn slightly, just in time to see Jack's mirthful expression and squint in disgust as she was sprayed with saliva to the tune of "Oh my fucking God, you're shitting me!"

"Jack…" Shepard warned, taking a step towards her and extending his hand.

"No, no, Shep! Shep! You've still got a dragon on board! A legit maneater. Can I keep her, since her dragon friends are gone? I swear I'll take care of her!" She clutched her stomach in her hand as she bellowed.

Astair cocked her head. "What is a dragon? All I'm getting are pictures of big lizards and an Earth game played with imagination."

Shepard massaged his temples, counting to ten.

oOxXxOo

_12:03 a.m. Shipboard time_

Shepard flumped down on the bed with a sigh, kicking off his boots. Tali promptly made a waving motion with her hands and pantomimed asphyxiation, clutching at her throat and dramatically flailing about on the couch. Satisfied that she had made her point, she too flumped and nudged the prostate Commander with her elbow.

"Well?"

"Well, what?" he grunted.

"Where'd you put her?"

"Who? Oh, her. Tol' her to jus' crash wherever, s'all cool." The Commander's voice was muffled by the pillow, a thin line of saliva dripping from his slightly agape mouth.

Tali was about to ask another question when she was cut short by the unmistakable sound of a very, very tired man in a very, very comfy bed.

oOxXxOo

Astair tested the air cautiously, expression spikes atremble as she explored the depths of the tunnel below the AI core on her fours. The light faded behind her as she ventured further, the deep thrum of the _Normandy's _heart beating beneath her claws drew her closer to its warmth. She slid her belly down towards the metal, her legs bending away and her tail curling in pleasure; she let out a slow sigh as she came to a full rest.

She surveyed the area a bit more thoroughly, discovering a stale scent of the fragile pilot and fear. Bringing up the schematics of the ship from her _velieris_, she noted that despite her earlier assumption, she was actually between the heat sink (an addendum noted that this was the device that enabled the _Normandy_'s state-of-the-art stealth systems) and the engine, creating a warm pocket while the heat sink was in use.

She appeared in the Med Bay, surprising the doctor, who was about to leave for her quarters.

"Oh, goodness," she laughed, "Nearly gave me a heart attack, and who would fix me, hmm? What do you need?"

"Something to pad an area for sleeping, please."

"Right, have some of these blankets, then. How many do you need? Here, take two." Chakwas removed the dark blue blankets from a cupboard and put them on Astair's horns, causing her to blink in surprise and jerk her head back, but Chakwas had already turned to finish closing up shop. She slid them off with mild amusement at the doctor's audacity.

"Need anything else, dear?" the doctor called over her shoulder.

"No." Astair bowed out and returned to her den, or what she was now using for one. Nestling the blankets around her in a bowl, she laid down, her tail wrapped around her body and her wings angled to trap any escaping heat. She leaned heavily against the blankets, warmed by the heat sink, and hoped it was a viable substitute for a beating heart.

oOxXxOo

Joker flipped a few switches, knowing it would annoy EDI.

"Jeff, my auxiliary cannons do not require power nor additional targeting aid. Shutting down ports 46B and 1206." The holographic sphere managed to sound disapproving, a tone that only caused Joker to be even more pleased with himself as he chuckled.

"Yeah, yeah, EDI. Are we out of the security cordon yet?"

"We will be able to resume default procedure and depressurize the heat sinks within the next thirty minutes."

"M'kay. Hey, do you have minesweeper?"

oOxXxOo

Shepard sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand as he examined the data pad he held with the left. One problem with being the hero all the damn time was that he was a _hero._ People expected heroic things from heroes! A hero does not simply chill on the couch in his underwear, watching vintage cartoons and eating potato chips. No, a hero does… Shepard-esque things.

_Every._

_Day. _

He tossed the data pad on the table and made grunts at Gardner, who responded in kind. Soon, a plate of nutrient-filled synthetic eggs, bacon, toast and waffles in the shape of a T-Rex was procured to his pleasure.

_Dinosaurs make taking the time to eat worthwhile_, he thought as he slathered his waffles with syrup, pooling one square at a time and drizzling a little over his bacon.

"Hey, Gardner. What'd Astair get for breakfast?" Shepard queried around a mouthful.

The cook paused. "Y'know, I don't think I've seen her."

Shepard froze. The biggest problem he had had with the visoli on board was that they had always cleaned out his breakfast supplies before he had even awoken every morning. Without fail.

"EDI? Can you contact Astair for me?" He looked up at the roof in random directions, not sure where to look (as always) when he was talking to the ship.

EDI was slow to respond. "I'm afraid that Astair is in no area of the ship where I have surveillance, Commander. However, I have the last known location of her entering the maintenance tunnels through the AI core last night at 12:21 shipboard time."

Shepard looked over his shoulder at the med bay, still unlit and empty.

oOxXxOo

She dreamed in gray, trapped in a fog she could not fly through. Her wings barely shifted the heavy soul of the beast she felt around her. Her wings were forming spider frost, heavy and unresponsive with her fatigue in the darkness. She warbled and hurred, screeched and bellowed, crystals forming from the moisture of her breath. No echoes, no response. She felt her flight falter, felt the tip of her dangling tail scrape upon something harsh and cold, but solid.

Her wings crumpled, slamming her full-tilt into the stone floor. Tasting metallic blood upon her lips, she lifted her claw to her mouth before bringing it to her eyes. She shook her head violently and squinted- _What? I… I can't see. Where is my hand? I feel it. _

Then she felt hands grabbing her, reaching from the darkness to drag her down to the stone, to sleep, to eternally dream. She kicked them away, hissing, but her snarl was lacklustre and her spikes refused to surface. She felt the hands renew their beckoning… come… sleep…so tired she was. _I'll just rest up for a while. I can try and fly again when I'm rested. _

She growled and lay upon the stone once more. It wasn't cold, not as cold as it used to be. The frost wasn't biting into her wing membrane anymore, either. _To sleep, perchance to dream, _floated into her tired mind.

oOxXxOo

Shepard's flashlight danced off of the metal, a kaleidoscope of only one color, before it came to rest upon a dark shape hulking near the wall.

He crawled closer, holding his flashlight in his mouth, eyes transfixed upon what he hoped wasn't what he thought it was.

He lifted the wing, stiff and trembling, from the form. Her eyes were closed, but silver streaks of blood ran from her eyes and her mouth, seeping between her scales wherever he touched her.

The heart of the Normandy strung out his panicked cries as a symphony, bitter and cold, an opus to the stars.


End file.
